A Bad Spell

by Magdalena Nawrocka-Weekes. These poems first appeared in Boshemia Magazine: Bodies.

A Bad Spell

Here I am

to putrefy


and testify

to the fact

that I haven’t left

this river bed

in six days

become one

with the reeds

of my pondscum mind

my muddied depths

and slow

the bile bubbles rise

to sink again.


It’s my privilege

to not make it personal

have my skin, my bones

my brick-walls

my weight tip the scale.

Slid between my thighs

so politically erect

forced and foddered

yet I easily ignored

never angry enough.

For everything done

to erase and subdue

search and destroy.

In youth I thought

I could only be angry

for so long.


My anger knows roots

stretching and shaking

branching to new buds

and in defiance blooms.

We will outgrow you.


I contain multitudes

marching and massing

a real community

the unseen me.

They eat my cheese

break my fibre

pick my battles

and keep me up.

But sometimes

in quick rebellion

they get lost

and make a mess.

But I love them still

for I am human

I am many.